


Where His Angel Dares to Tread

by PinkPenguinParade



Series: In Action How Like an Angel [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M rating because caution but T might be okay, M/M, Newt is competent fight me, Not Really Character Death, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Torture, angel nerdery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-25 06:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21351661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkPenguinParade/pseuds/PinkPenguinParade
Summary: Crowley.He wasn't sure what or how, but whatever was going on, it had to do with the demon.He tried for a moment to shove his worry down.  There was no reason for it--Crowley was smart. Crowley was capable.  Crowley was fast and clever and ....Crowley was, he was certain, in deep, deep trouble.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: In Action How Like an Angel [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1524512
Comments: 90
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to LastSaskatchewanPirate for generally beta-and-abetting and letting me bounce ideas off (and assigning me five Hail Crowleys when I texted her to say I might be sinning), and to LigeiaStGermaine for beta-and-abetting, the title suggestion, and being an eagle-eye typo-checker. 
> 
> Thanks to all of y'all who liked the first story/flashback. This is where it started, and what I was working toward. (fic is finished, will be dropped over the next few days as I get line editing and cat-free keyboard time).

The first he knew there was a problem was when he woke up on the bookshop floor surrounded by people. One of them was calling 999.

"That's... not necessary, my dear," he croaked. There was a throb there somewhere, an ache he couldn't quite yet identify. He started to sit up. 

Gentle hands pushed him back down. "Lie still," said a woman he recognized as working at the restaurant three doors down (she had brought him fish and chips last week, he remembered. It had been delicious). "I tried to call Mr. Anthony but it went to voicemail."

He tried again. "I assure you, I'm quite all right," he said, reaching past the throb to give everyone a push of 'the nice man is fine, I should get back to what I was doing and incidentally I should forget all about this.'

"Aargh," he added, when this entirely failed to produce the desired solitude and instead upgraded 'throb' to 'ow ow shooty pain'. He stopped trying to get up.

In the end, he had to sit for the EMTs. The young woman who checked him out was gentle and firm, asking all kinds of questions about his humanish body as though the answer were to be found there. He held still while she felt the back of his head and shone light in his eyes (it shouldn't have hurt--Heaven was much brighter--but it definitely did unpleasant things to him). Yes, he was feeling okay now, just a bit of a headache. No, he didn't feel bruised anywhere. No, this wasn't usual, but he was sure it was nothing, just a funny turn. Yes, he'd be sure to follow up with his regular doctor. No, he hadn't been drinking, and he wasn't on any medications. Yes, he was certain the hospital would be happy to take a look at him, but it wasn't that big a thing, my dear.

"Mister Fell, could you move your arms please?"

He looked down, only then realizing that he was clutching his ribs, arms wrapped tight around himself. He didn't know why. The ache was there but not _there_. It just kept building, and as long as he was surrounded by people he couldn't do anything to stop it.

He forced himself to relax his arms. "Really, I'm quite alright," he said. "I feel terribly sorry to have bothered you."

"Would you unbutton your waistcoat please? I need to check your ribs."

"I'm sure that's not necessary--"

"Sir, if you don't want to go to hospital I can't force you, but I'd rather not get in trouble for not doing my job properly."

He sighed and unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt so she could palpate his sides and abdomen, looking for sore or tender spots that she wasn't going to find because the pain wasn't coming from there. (The young lady is only doing her job, he thinks, and being kind about it. He shouldn't want to just wish her away.)

She sat back as he rebuttoned his shirt, clicked her pen thoughtfully a few times before reaching for her clipboard. "Well, sir, I _do_ wish you'd go to hospital to get checked out. Unexplained fainting spells are no small thing. Get some rest, and do please follow up with your regular doctor."

"Of course." He barely glanced at the paperwork she handed him, signing everything with fingers that only trembled a little. "Thank you so much for your care," he said automatically, half-mad to get away from the lovely stupid well-meaning humans and behind a stout lock.

He walked her to the door, waving out anyone else who had stayed. He even managed to smile brightly for the onlookers, ignoring the stab it sent through him. "Thank you all, my dears," he said. "I think I should go rest now."

He held it together through locking the door and pulling down the blinds. He was almost to the back room when another wave went through him, and he collapsed to the floor, thinking the word he had been keeping resolutely out of his mind. 

_Crowley._ He wasn't sure what or how, but whatever was going on, it had to do with the demon. 

He tried for a moment to shove his worry down. There was no reason for it--Crowley was smart. Crowley was capable. Crowley was fast and clever and ....

Crowley was, he was certain, in deep, deep trouble. 

Aziraphale took a breath he didn't technically need and _unfurled_, expanding past his humanish corporation to his essential angelic self.

SODDING OW, his angelic self said.

Unfurled like this, floating free around his poor fragile matter-clouded body, he could easily see the source of the pain. Pulsing, glowing like an ember and quite clashing with his own angelic radiance, washed in sickly waves of pain, was--

A... sigil. 

WHAT? He erupted in rage. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. HOW DID SOMEONE... WHEN DID....

Memory stretched itself and knocked, timidly. 

OH.

_...OH._

_...THAT._

***

It had been just after the end of the world. Giddy, exhausted, and spent, they had gone back to Crowley's flat, had had wine and had discussed what they might do. They both knew that it wasn't over, not for them. Hell never forgives and Heaven didn't much either, these days, and the one thing guaranteed to get either of them riled up was being made to look stupid.

Thank Agnes, brilliantly dotty old bat that she had been, for that last prophecy. It hadn't even been as hard as he had thought to switch corporations, and Crowley, ensconced in the angel's own soft body, had finally fallen asleep. Aziraphale... hadn't. Aziraphale had paced, and fretted, and taken some time to strengthen Crowley's wards, and had worried and worried. 

He had distracted himself from the morning by letting himself be drawn into an interesting problem: could he design a hex that would _tell him_ how Crowley was? So he would know?

He hadn't intended to activate it, he really hadn't. But he was worried and tired and stuck in a body that wasn't his own. Everything felt a little off-balance. And bodies have ideas of their own, sometimes. 

_This_ body slapped his borrowed hand right down on it as soon as the impulse crossed his mind--a ward created by an angel, using the body of a demon. 

And when it faded from sight, both of them had assumed it had just been built wrong, somehow, and let it fade from memory.

***

HMM. APPARENTLY IT WORKED AFTER ALL, Aziraphale said. AND OW.

He curled around it, inspecting it with several eyes. It glowed like banked... Hellfire, actually, spitting the occasional toxic spark. The lines that tied into Crowley's body were the brightest, and oh, this had worked beyond his wildest dreams and he almost wished it hadn't.

Except... He would have grinned darkly in his mortal body, but instead his wings fluttered and his eyes shone for a moment in savage satisfaction. Because it _did_ work, and he _knew_. It might have been hours, days before he was concerned, but it wasn't-- he knew that Crowley had been fine, and then he had not, and he knew when. 

And he was going to get him back. 

So. Start from first principles:

-Crowley was gone. He stretched out past the burn to confirm, and couldn't find the demon anywhere; but he had known that first. 

-Crowley was not dead. He couldn't be dead. The sigil should have collapsed if he was, and it hadn't. (And Crowley couldn't be dead, anyway. He wouldn't consider it. If Crowley was dead, then none of this mattered.)

If Crowley was alive, Aziraphale would find him. If Crowley wasn't alive, Aziraphale would have nothing in particular holding him back from a lovely exercise in Divine Wrath. 

Well, Divine-ish, anyway. Definitely wrath. 

-Crowley was not discorporated. He wasn't actually sure about this one, not 100%, but the toxic burning in his core was made with Crowley's blood, Crowley's body. He was almost certain that if the body was gone, he would be able to tell.

-Wherever he was, he was not on this plane. Probably this meant either Heaven or Hell--there were others, but they were far more trouble and he couldn't imagine anyone on either side bothering. Heaven was... possible, but he couldn't see any of them Upstairs going for Crowley first, not when they held so much more hatred for him for betraying them. 

Well, probably, he thought uneasily,--he was sure that they wouldn't _object_ to wreaking havoc on his demon. Or any demon, for that matter; Crowley would just be a nice bonus. Sandalphon might be happy to just smite Crowley, but Gabriel or Michael... they would make him watch.

-The sigil screamed pain and Hellfire. He searched it for any hint of Heaven, and came up empty. 

So: Crowley was taken, almost certainly by the powers of Hell. 

Time to go get him, then.

***

_He would have wagered, if anyone had asked, that Heaven would have been the first to come for them._

_He forced himself to take a searing, choking breath, and another. _

_Another._

_He'd have been wrong. Heaven hath no fury, apparently, like a demon scorned. _

_Another breath. _

_At least Aziraphale wasn't here. He held on to that, fighting for air, forcing himself to keep standing._

_At least his angel was safe. _

_(He hoped, so much, that his angel was safe)._

***

It shouldn't have been this much work to stuff himself back into his mortal body, Aziraphale thought. But the burning of the sigil was distracting, and he was trying some quite tricky maneuvering to shift it toward his poor abused corporation, which for all it was more fragile was not as inherently susceptible to the echoes of Hellfire as his angelic self.

He finally managed to furl himself back into his body, sloshing unpleasantly as he filled the corners and cracks and tried to get over the feeling of having gone in upside-down and back-to-front. 

The burning lessened almost immediately, though; concentrating in his left forearm as he watched the sigil slice itself into his flesh, blood welling up of its own accord.

It still hurt, oh it hurt, but it was a more ordinary hurt of flesh and blood, something he could ignore long enough to think. His flesh _remembered_ the Hellfire, somehow, and got on with dealing with it.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and another, just because it was _better_, and carefully cleaned and bandaged his arm.

So. He was finally able to think clearly, and he was almost certain he knew at least generally where Crowley was. He could go get the demon, or... 

Hmm, he thought.

A summoning circle... might work. Probably not, he admitted to himself; probably whoever took him would have warded against that. But it would be the easiest thing to try, and the fastest option to bring Crowley home if it did work. 

He busied himself for a few minutes--put a 'family emergency' note on the 'Closed' sign, cleared enough space for his circle (_well_ away from his Heavenly communication circle, thank you) by shifting tables and books and an antique rug. 

Drawing the circle itself took almost an hour, checking and re-checking, and finally, carefully, trying not to let his hand shake as he wrote in Crowley's name.

...He couldn't finish the activation sigil. 

He tried. He wanted to. It was right there. 

He couldn't do it. 

_"I, Aziraphale, promise you, the demon Crowley, that at the very least I will _call_ you first before activating any hex, sign, ward, or sigil that affects you or draws upon your essence,"_ he had said. 

Oh good, _both_ of his terrible ideas had worked.

He picked up his telephone with trembling hands and dialed Crowley's mobile.

It went straight to voicemail. 

"Hello, Crowley. I am about to attempt something deeply unwise, and I did promise to call you first."

He took a breath, and another, trying to steady himself. 

And he still couldn't finish the activation sigil.

Well....

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Item two: getting into Hell. Actually, he was fairly certain he could just go down the escalator--nobody ever in the history of time, he thought, has been too worried about getting INTO Hell.

Okay, so summoning was out, not that he was certain it would have worked anyway. Miracles were out, because he was going to have to go to Hell. That left only the difficult questions: how to get into Hell, how to not be killed the instant he set foot in Hell, and if that all worked, how to get back out of Hell.

Piece of cake, Aziraphale thought, slightly hysterically. He took refuge, again, in relentless organization.

Item one: no miracles. That was going to make this more difficult, but Crowley had been clear last time: angelic miracles left angelic traces, and best not to stretch his luck.

Item two: getting into Hell. Actually, he was fairly certain he could just go down the escalator--nobody ever in the history of time, he thought, has been too worried about getting INTO Hell--but he was not at all sure how to find Crowley once he got there.

So, item 2.5: how to get into Hell in such a way that he can safely search for Crowley and not be immediately recognized and killed.

And item 2.6: how to get back out again.

Item 3: Crowley's corporation had been enough to keep him from immediately being pegged as an angel, but he didn't currently have Crowley's corporation. And, he thought briefly, the denizens of Hell were likely to believe Crowley to have already been tainted--he was on trial specifically for being tainted-- so it was anyone's guess whether Aziraphale could actually pass because nobody would be expecting a whiff of Heaven from literally any other demon

Item 3.5: he had a few ideas, but nearly all of them were going to hurt.

Item 4: bugger.

Okay, back to item 3. He would need to disguise his body, and he wasn't sure how much of that he could do without miracles. However, he had spent a long time in Soho, and he was fairly certain he could arrange for some clever assistance from the mortals.

Item 3.5: In attempting all of this, he was likely to need all of the power he can muster, and that meant being able to bring out his wings. Hopefully without alerting all of Hell and then dying.

He decided to shelve item 3.5 until he had cleared up the rest of item 3.

Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Heaven (Retired), thought back over dozens if not hundreds of conversations he had had with the only constant companion in his life on Earth. 

Everyone who knew his face, everyone in Hell who had run into him or against him--everyone in Heaven, for that matter--had all seen him in the body had been wearing for 6,000 years. He liked his body. He had never, up til now, seen any real reason to change it. But change it he could.

He was pretty sure it didn't even really count as a miracle, not in the way that would tip anyone off. Crowley did it all the time, almost as often as changing clothes, depending on how he felt in the day. Aziraphale never had, but he knew he could, and he had certainly watched his love do it enough.

"Well, best begun is soonest done," he muttered to himself. 

Aziraphale stretched his neck.

Thought about the dozens and hundreds of times he had seen Crowley do this.

Reached down into himself, finding the levers of this corporation, and _shifted_.

It was possibly the strangest feeling he had ever experienced--moreso than being in the body of his best friend, nearly tied with sharing a body with a very nice medium and part-time disciplinarian. 

He was shorter and off-balance, and something was tickling his neck. He also felt a sudden, urgent need to find his mirror.

"Oh good lord!"

Crowley's default female form was tall, lithe, and lean--more rounded at the hips, with high breasts that filled out shirts differently, but still worked with his normal choices of clothing. Which, in retrospect, might actually have had something to do with the way the demon dressed. (He also suspected there were edits made to the body to fit the clothes, rather than the other way around, but he felt he was already stretching the limits of 'no miracles'.)

Aziraphale had subconsciously been expecting something of the sort himself. 

He was ...not disappointed, exactly, but certainly surprised. His hair cascaded down to his shoulders in wide soft spirals, and he was not _less_ padded, but there had been quite a lot of redistribution. 

He was also straining the buttons of his waistcoat quite alarmingly.

The word 'pulchritudinous' wandered through his head as he rushed to unbutton his waistcoat before it was damaged. He really must, he decided, get Crowley to stop leaving vintage pulp romances at the shop. (Or at the very least he should stop reading them.)

Well, he thought, staring at a completely unfamiliar reflection. It was at least not likely that anyone would recognize him. 

Her? 

Oh, dear. Pronouns were going to have to be sorted, weren't they?

This was... Oh, for pity's sake, he'd used male pronouns for _quite literally_ longer than human civilization. He had every intention of continuing to use them once he had all this sorted.

He was just having a little bit of trouble squaring that with the body in his mirror. 

Now that his waistcoat was out of danger he could pay a little more attention to everything else. His shirt would be... well, his shirt was going to be _stretched_, that's all there was to it. He took off the bow tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons. Stretched or not, he could get by with it long enough to take care of his other preparations.

Which, first and foremost, were going to involve getting some different trousers, because his were suddenly too tight _here_ and entirely too roomy _there_ and that was a terrible way to treat good tailoring.

He was halfway to a snap to adjust things before he stopped himself. _No Miracles_.

Aziraphale desperately wanted, not for the first time today, to consign all of Hell straight to perdition, and that way lay the lurking shadow of hysterics again.

His clothing upstairs, not that he kept much, would likely be the same. He couldn't stand most modern-day garments--completely aside from having Standards, Dammit, so much of current fashion was created and sold by people who were just, well, _miserable_. He could feel it in the stitches and the cloth, in the linen and cotton and cut.

Crowley teased him about his waistcoat and coat, but they'd been made with pride and attentiveness by people who enjoyed what they did. They were _comfortable_, because all he could feel when he put them on was the care that went into them, the care he'd taken of them since then. They almost loved him back, by now...

...And that would never do for Hell.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. 

Just _bollocks_.

A quick rummage upstairs in his flat produced the following:

-The understanding that none of his regular kit was going to work terribly well.

-A black t-shirt that Crowley had apparently left at some point, which was definitely too small for his current body but which he put on anyway because it felt like good luck, and because he was certain the demon would have some very choice things to say about the way the words 'Sex Pistols' were now warped across his chest. (He didn't believe in luck, not really, but he was a great believer in morale, and he desperately needed some.)

-An old pair of pajama bottoms which were sufficiently shapeless to fit reasonably well. Or rather, to fit exactly as badly on this form as on the one he was used to, which was a comfort on its own.

-A sudden appreciation of the 'trying things on' montages from the movies Crowley dragged him to, because this was both disheartening and time-consuming and yet _at the same time_ a little bit fun.

-An understanding, as he bit back a fractured giggle, that the enormity of this task might perhaps be getting to him just the teensiest bit.

He had begun to expand his rummage with an eye towards _What do I do with this _hair_ it's everywhere!_ when there was a pounding on the door downstairs. 

He ignored it. 

It continued, with the addition of a voice. "Aziraphale, I know you're in there, open up!"

That sounded... familiar. 

The door opened on its own as he headed downstairs, and he came around the corner to the sight of Anathema and Newt tumbling in from the street.

Hmm. Looks like his door had decided to expand its definition of 'need', as well.

"Yes?" he said.

They picked themselves up and closed the door behind them, then turned to him.

And stared. 

Well, Anathema stared. Newt stared wide-eyed for a moment before blushing furiously and looking toward the nearest bookshelf.

Which is when Aziraphale remembered that he was still wearing an _extremely_ strained Sex Pistols t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms with penguins on them.

He crossed his arms disapprovingly. Or he meant to, but everything was the wrong shape, so it felt more like raising a shield and incidentally keeping him from seeing a rather large additional chunk of the floor. 

"A... Aziraphale? Aziraphale. It's definitely you, that aura is-- ...it's definitely you," said Anathema, sounding almost sure of herself.

"Hello, Anathema, Newt. What brings you here?" he said, in the best get-rid-of-customer voice he could manage, which he was terribly afraid wasn't very good because he was terribly afraid his current contralto might actually be lower than his usual voice.

"Would you believe me if I told you the cards told me you needed help?" Anathema said.

"I... don't think so, no."

Newt spoke up without quite looking directly at him. "Would you believe one of your neighbors nicked your address book and called us to make sure someone checked in on you?"

He remembered the very nice young woman from the chip shop telling him she'd tried to call 'Mr. Anthony,' and sighed. "Yes, actually. That I would believe." He made a mental note to retrieve his address book from her when this was all over.

...And to thank her, he thought, as inspiration bloomed. "Anathema. Could I--?" 

He broke off. Anathema was looking at him strangely, her hand in Newt's. She looked pointedly from his abortive summoning circle, to his bandaged forearm, back to his face. "Aziraphale," she said quietly, enunciating carefully. "...What did you do to your arm? Where's Crowley?"

He felt his face crumple. _I will not cry,_ he told himself sternly. He was rather afraid if he let himself start he would never stop. 

"Crowley is... they took him. They took him!" He hadn't said it out loud, before. The throb in his arm had hardly let him forget, but he hadn't said it out loud and oh, it hurt so much more than his arm.

"What did you do to your arm?" she said again, stepping slowly toward him.

"S-sigil," he sniffed. "Rather a long story."

"May I see?" 

He nodded, fumbling with the wrappings as she came forward. 

"Do you have a kitchen? Tea?"

"Back there," he waved, and finally got the wrappings undone. 

"Newt, would you go make us all some tea? I think we may be here for a bit," Anathema said. He nodded with a gulp and scurried off to the small kitchen. 

The wrappings off, the sigil itself was smaller than it felt. It had mostly closed, but was still oozing blood in a couple lines, and glowing faintly with the echoes of banked Hellfire. 

"That... looks a bit nasty," Anathema said after a moment. "Will you tell me what happened?"

"I have to go get him, there isn't _time_!"

"Aziraphale... We got a call from someone concerned about you, that you had fainted and refused to go to the hospital. Fair enough, you shouldn't be susceptible to most of the things humans get." 

She was keeping her voice very steady and calm, but he could feel the cracks starting under it.

"But you fainted, and that's not normal. So we came to check on you, and found that you'd started a very complex summoning circle, changed your body entirely, and carved a symbol into your arm. In a human, these are... these are _not good signs_. I want to help you, but I need to know what's going on. Because right now... if you're going to help Crowley you need to be sharp and focused and I don't think you are right now."

"I didn't... I didn't carve it. Exactly." 

"Tell me what did happen. Exactly," she said. "Please. I know we only get together for tea from time to time, but I do care about you. And Crowley, even when he insists on calling me 'book girl'." She steered him to the couch in the back room and sat him down, taking his hand. 

It was the hand that did it. Her warm, human hand in his; her warm, human voice asking to listen, wanting to help. And it all came spilling out, the things they hadn't shared earlier because it was so much to saddle on poor humans: Their trials, their uncertainty, the hope that they'd be left alone, the knowledge that they wouldn't. Their salvation, courtesy of Agnes' last prophecy for them.

She looked a bit happy at that bit.

Newt had been hovering in the kitchen, listening but obviously unwilling to interrupt. He took advantage of the moment to bring out some tea and a plate of biscuits that he'd scrounged from one of the cabinets, and gently pressed a mug into Aziraphale's hands.

Aziraphale took a sip automatically, not realizing til then how dry his throat had gotten.

Not realizing til then that he had been crying for a while.

"Will you tell me about the sigil?" Anathema said, when he had finished his tea and Newt was busy fixing him another.

And he did, about the fear and the panic and the genuine interest in whether it could be done, about the impulsive activation. About _promising_ Crowley that he wouldn't do anything like that again, and completely foxing himself when he hoped it would just make Crowley understand he was serious.

About trying to figure out how to change himself enough that Hell wouldn't recognize him until he got them both out.

About the urgent, insistent pain in his arm, and how much he wanted it to stop, and how grateful he was for it because as long as it hurt he knew Crowley was alive.

He took a deep breath, and some more tea. 

Crowley was alive. 

_Crowley was alive._

***

_He was alive._

_He wasn't sure, couldn't tell how long he'd been here. Felt like weeks, maybe months._

_But time ran differently in Hell, when demons wanted it to. And he had definitely gotten someone's attention. _

_He forced himself to breathe, ignoring the ragged edge to the sound, the searing in his humanish lungs._

_Up top, on Earth, it could have been minutes. Or years. Aziraphale might not have missed him yet, or might have given up on him. _

_(Or might have died trying to get to him.)_

_No. No, no no. He tried to banish the thought. Reasoned that if the angel had perished storming Hell, nobody from the lowest imp on up to Satan himself would be able to resist the temptation to chuck him in here and gloat. _

_Nobody would have killed his angel and not come to let him know about it._

_Well, maybe if they valued their lives. _

_Another breath. Another. He wobbled, the muscles in his legs screaming, and fire bloomed in his wings until he could steady himself._

_Another, panting with the pain._

_He could almost remember... was this one of his? He had sent memos down from time to time on various punishments, generally claiming credit for some appalling thing that the humans had thought up. Always ignored, his notes going into his file with a 'well done!' and the complete disinterest of anyone from head office._

_This one might have been his. _

_Well. _

_Well done, him, then._

_He was laughing. He was laughing and he couldn't stop, he _couldn't stop_, not until he moved too far and his body went white-hot with pain again._

_Aziraphale would come for him. _

_Aziraphale would forget him._

_Aziraphale would try, and die, and be carried into his chamber any moment. _

_Aziraphale would come for him._

_He tried to remember how to hope. _

_Problem was, he wasn't even sure what he was hoping for._

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Okay, tell us what you're trying to do," Anathema said after a moment, "and maybe we can help. You said you think you can get him if you can hide long enough to just not be overwhelmed straight off?"
> 
> "I... I think so, yes. We can sense each other, not completely unlike auras. Last time I had his body to hide in, and everyone already expected us to ... to _smell_ like each other, for lack of a better word, because it's not smell, but... but I don't have that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise absolutely that nobody dies in this. And also that if I ever write and publish a story where that happens it will be well marked.
> 
> This doesn't mean I don't play with the idea, just a tiny bit.

***

"So," Newt said, carefully keeping his eyes on Aziraphale's face, "What's with the Sex Pistols t-shirt, then? I saw you at the end of the world and tea since then and you have never been less than impeccable."

"It's C--" he took a breath--"Crowley's. It doesn't fit, but nothing here fits, and some of his other clothes are here but this is the only thing he's worn long enough that it doesn't feel like the people who made it and it feels like _him_ and I don't want to take it off." He sniffed again and took a bite of biscuit.

"Okay, tell us what you're trying to do," Anathema said after a moment, "and maybe we can help. You said you think you can get him if you can hide long enough to just not be overwhelmed straight off?"

"I... I think so, yes. We can sense each other, not completely unlike auras. Last time I had his body to hide in, and everyone already expected us to ... to _smell_ like each other, for lack of a better word, because it's not smell, but... but I don't have that, and even with no miracles all I can think of...."

He trailed off, silent for a moment.

"I can't see you like a demon would, but your aura is... it's unmistakeable. That's not going to be easy to hide." She left the sentence hanging there, an invitation to him to continue.

"...All I can think of is to, to cloak myself in as much misery as I can find. And maybe borrow some human ingenuity." He waved vaguely at the air behind him. "But so much of my power is in my wings, and I can't hide them completely, not from demons, even if they're not manifest, and nobody makes, makes _wing cozies_ that I could just pop over them so they aren't noticed."

Anathema squeezed his hand. "Okay. We'll start with some clothes. Shops are still open for a little while longer--we passed a few charity shops on the way here, and I can probably help a bit with fit and the like."

"I'm sure you don't need to--"

"Have you ever gone shopping for women's clothing? In a woman's body?"

"...No," he answered finally.

"Okay then. Put on some shoes, if you can find some that work. Newt?"

Newt looked up from his seat at the end of the couch, where he had apparently been lost in thought. "Yes?"

"Hold the fort? We might be a bit."

"I can't go out like this!" Aziraphale sputtered.

"'Nathema, I'm going to step out for a little. I have a couple ideas, want to check something out."

"Okay. Be careful, hon," Anathema said. "Call if you need."

Aziraphale was not used to being ignored by humans. "I can't go out like this!" he said again. 

"It's Soho," Newt said to him. "I saw a dozen weirder things than you on the drive in. And trust me, nobody is going to recognize you as that nice Mr. Fell."

"Just... go out? Like this? In _pajamas_?!"

"Unless you want to go through your closet again until all the shops are closed," Anathema said firmly. "You said there wasn't time. Get moving."

"Well," Aziraphale huffed, and got moving.

***

_Aziraphale was dead. _

_There had been light, a moment ago, flooding the room and blinding him. Even though he was almost certain it was just the regular flickery overheads of Hell, it was dark enough here that the cheap fluorescents were searingly bright by contrast, and when his eyes finally adjusted...._

_There was a body. Bright hair, in disarray; cream and buff clothes stained dark with red and gold. _

_Blue eyes, staring sightlessly. Looking almost directly at him._

_Almost, but not quite. _

_His angel was gone, and he couldn't even meet his eyes._

_He screamed, his wings trying to snap out with his rage until they ran into searing pain and he screamed again, fighting to steady himself. Holding himself still against the sobs that wracked his body._

_When he had managed stillness again, he looked at that dear face and reached out, just a little. Pain flared in his hand._

_He held it there anyway, pushing against the barrier, until it overloaded his nerves and his hand jerked back. He glanced down at it automatically, expecting blackening blisters._

_The skin was whole. No blisters, no blood. The pain was just... pain._

_...Huh. _

_When he looked up again, Aziraphale's body was gone, and he was alone in the dark once more._

***

They returned to the shop in the waning autumn sun, Anathema carrying a respectable pile of eclectic clothing (all of it dull and dark to Aziraphale's senses).

Aziraphale was now wearing a pair of trainers along with his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, and clutching an ancient and decrepit afghan that spilled over his arms, ridiculously orange and brown and avocado and radiating so much love from every unraveling stitch that he had bought it first thing just to keep him going. 

All in all, Anathema had been most helpful and very very patient, he thought. 

_"Did you want to go bra shopping today? You're not going to be able to wear that without a bra. ....Well, _you_ might, but the rest of us are subject to gravity, so choose wisely."_

_"I know it's a bit loose at the hips, it's a skirt. They have their uses and I'm telling you right now, finding trousers here that fit that figure is going to be more trouble than you think. Do you want it or don't you?"_

_"Well, I don't think I'd choose that top with those boots, but it's Hell, so they probably don't have much fashion sense. How do they feel?"_

There was no sign of Newt as Aziraphale opened the door and pulled some cash out of the till. "Thank you again, my dear. I'm sorry, there are no pockets in these penguin things and I didn't think to bring my wallet," he said, handing her the bills.

"You'll get him back," she said kindly. "You'd better, because you'd be terrible by yourself."

He sighed. "I would, wouldn't I?" He ran a hand over the afghan again and, with terrible reluctance, stepped over to lay it on the back of the couch. Crowley would laugh at him for it, later. He would.

He _would_. 

"Shall we start?" he said. "I believe there's enough here to make an... outfit, of sorts."

"I'm really going to regret asking this, but... was there any kind of fashion in Hell? An aesthetic to aim for?"

Aziraphale thought for a moment as he poked through the pile of clothes on his chair. "Wretched," he answered finally. "Nothing overriding, but everything was, well, Hellish. I'm quite certain that the clothing _styles_ are not going to be the problem."

Just as Aziraphale got enough bits together to possibly make a passable outfit, held very carefully away from him between thumb and forefinger, Newt knocked at the door and called out. Aziraphale took advantage of the distraction to drop them all again and wipe his fingers surreptitiously on a penguin.

Anathema stepped over first, opening the door and grabbing some of the bags he was carrying. One of them smelled enticingly of fish and chips. "Oh good, I was starting to get worried."

Newt dug in the fish and chips bag and pulled out a battered brown book, which he handed to Aziraphale with a flourish. "I think this is yours. And that's dinner, because I am starving."

"My address book!" Aziraphale flipped through it briefly as if to check that it was all there and laid it back down on the counter by the till. "My dear boy, what _have_ you been doing?"

"Besides getting your address book back? Things that might help. And food." He waved at the other bags, placed on the floor while he snagged a hot chip and took a bite. "Right, these chips are brilliant. I'd forgive her for nicking your book, if I were you."

Anathema smiled fondly at him and got out some supper. "Good thinking, Newt. Thank you."

Aziraphale, once his attention had been drawn to the other parcels, had gone somewhat pale. "What... what _is_ all that?"

"Human ingenuity," Newt said, handing him the last packet of fish. "Eat first. I don't know how much of this is going work or how much we might need. Get on the outside of some food first, I think it's going to be a long night."

Aziraphale took the packet automatically, without taking his eyes off the little pile. "That one... that one _hurts_...."

Anathema steered him over to sit down on the couch. "Aziraphale. Eat."

"I don't need to eat," he said faintly, still staring towards the counter.

"You usually do, though. Your body is used to it. It will help." She sighed. "If you start getting hungry in the middle of this it's going to slow you down more."

Newt had come over close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. "Look, we... we might not need everything there, right? I just grabbed whatever I could think of that I could get my hands on. Eat something. We're here with you. You're going to get him back."

Aziraphale shook it off and unwrapped his fish, taking a bite automatically, deliberately not glancing over toward the counter anymore. "Thank you, dear boy," he said, patting Newt's hand. He ate mechanically, but he ate, and soon they were all washing greasy fingers. 

"Clothes first, I think," Aziraphale said without enthusiasm as he dried his hands. 

"We should take them upstairs," Anathema said. "Unless you want to give Newt a nosebleed."

"Upstairs, thank you!" Newt called out from the other room.

"Very well." Aziraphale steeled himself and picked up the pile of clothes, carrying it up to his little flat.

Anathema came with him, picking up bits that fell off as he walked. "If you want to do this part alone, I understand. You can just yell if you run into something that needs an extra hand or something."

"Oh no, dear girl, it's fine. You've both been so kind today. I just feel as though I've wasted all day and I should have gone for him already." He dumped the clothing on the chair.

"Is there any reasonable chance that you would not have been immediately overwhelmed and killed storming the front gates of Hell?"

"I don't think so, no. Or I should have done it already."

"Is he still alive?" 

Aziraphale's hand darted over to his bandaged forearm, hovering over the sigil with a finger. "He's alive. I would be able to tell if he wasn't."

"Then you're doing exactly the right thing, which is, _what you can_." She dug her hand into the pile of clothes, pulling out a skirt that felt particularly dark. "I know this is going to suck. But try this on."

***

Aziraphale had definitely revised his opinion of wardrobe montages. There were not enough flickery flourescents for this to be Hell, but these clothes had not been worn by happy people. He could feel them throbbing against his senses. 

"What do you think?" Anathema said.

"Ow," Aziraphale said. "It's... dark."

"The mirror. Are you going to stand out?" 

He looked at himself--boots and a layered black skirt that was almost fluffy; a dark green button-down shirt left open over the Sex Pistols t-shirt when it became clear that there was no way it was going to close. He felt vaguely like he'd walked out of one of the terrible movies Crowley was so fond of. "Not for the clothes, no, I don't think so," he said. "But it's not enough."

She regarded him carefully. "No. You're... dimmed, but you're still angelic. The goth look is good on you, though."

"I don't like it," he said quietly. 

"I know. Is it worth it if it gets you both back alive?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "It is."

"Then let's go downstairs and see what we can add to this."

Newt had tea ready, bless him (and Aziraphale almost did, before realizing that it would definitely leave a heavenly mark on his burgeoning disguise). He had also laid things out on the table, waiting for them to come down. Whatever had so screamed to his senses earlier was nowhere to be seen, though. Aziraphale carefully did not look for it.

"Whoa," said Newt as they came downstairs. "Grunge goth?" 

"We're not quite there, though," said Anathema. "What do you have?"

What Newt had, as it turned out, was a lot. The boy had made full use of his time and practical human ingenuity. 

The box from the costume shop held hair color and a few pairs of monster contacts. "You guys don't talk much about your, erm, factions," Newt said. "But it never much sounded like there were a lot of other of your people on Earth, so I thought that their first thought might not be 'cosplayers!' like it would for a human seeing you. That might help."

Aziraphale looked at the bright, curiously lifeless contacts. "I like these ones," he said, hovering a hand over a slit-pupiled pair, green and snakeish.

Anathema shook her head and stabbed a finger down near a large pair that featured messy, crazed zigzags in red and black. "These," she said, with feeling.

"But I like these," Aziraphale said again. 

"But those look almost homey, after meeting Crowley," Anathema said. "And these give me the screaming heebies just lying there. You want to be a believable demon, go for these."

Newt looked smug. 

Aziraphale sighed and picked up the next thing, which proved to be a green plastic watergun. He looked at Newt with a question in his eyes. 

Newt handed him a jam jar.

Aziraphale could feel it through the glass. "Holy water?! I could make my own, stronger than this." 

"You've been muttering 'no miracles' all afternoon. And I... we... we don't want you going down completely unarmed, right?" He glanced to Anathema, who nodded. "So. The bloke at the toy store swears this one is the least leaky model they have, and the priest I talked to was very helpful once I explained that it was for my poor bedridden grandmother who just wanted her little shrine to be full."

"You lied to a priest?"

"To help an angel. Fill the gun, take it with you. Anathema will be heartbroken if she can't chat about grimoires over tea with you anymore." 

Aziraphale heard the _come back_ underlying his words, and felt a little flutter of hope inside his ribcage. He'd quite forgotten what it was like to deal with humans on these terms, and it took his breath away. 

Or, he thought when he tried to breathe again, maybe that was the clothes he was wearing. He was almost getting used to the misery, but he felt half-undressed and _entirely_ too drafty around the nethers. "I don't know how I can even carry that," he said suddenly. "There aren't any pockets here!"

"Ah," Newt said, and dove into a bag. He came up with a roll of gray fabric. "Here."

Aziraphale took it, looking at it dubiously. 

Anathema took it from him. "Elastic?"

"Oddly, there's not a lot of call for thigh holsters in Soho, and I wouldn't have even tried to guess on a size, okay? I didn't even know what kind of clothes you were going to have; just that you might need some way to hold the watergun on if you were going to take it. I thought it might be useful; I grabbed some. There's also a sewing kit in there because charity shop clothes always need _something_ and I'm guessing you don't have one on hand. Do not make me try to do a fitting."

"Good thinking, Newt," Anathema said, and stepped closer to Newt to plant a kiss on his cheek. They all took a moment to look at the options, pondering.

Aziraphale shook his head. "This will help with the physicality, the look of it," he said. "I just don't think it'll be enough."

Newt took a breath. "Tell me what you need," he said, with a hesitance that made Aziraphale's hackles rise. 

"...More misery," the angel said.

Newt closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Yeah," he said, and stepped back into the kitchen. He returned immediately, holding a box that glowed darkly to Aziraphale's senses.

"What _is_ that?" Aziraphale asked.

"You said you needed misery. This was the best I could do." Newt sighed. "There was an apartment fire, a couple days ago--a pretty bad one. Took out most of the building. Not a lot of news coverage, but when you go through all the papers every morning sometimes things stick out. I... I figured, if clothes could keep an echo, other things probably could too. So I snuck in and got some of the soot and ash." 

"It hurts to look at." He realized he was staring at it, wide-eyed; it was hard to pull his eyes away. He'd seen countless battle-sites and tombs and memorials, the aftermath of more disasters than he could remember (natural and otherwise), but it hadn't invaded his bookshop. It was wrong, just sitting there, out of context. "....It's brilliant," he said. 

"O...kay," Newt said. "I hoped it would help, if you needed it, but I didn't think it went that far."

"It is, though. It's not going to be fun," he said, "and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry to impose further on you, and I very much appreciate your assistance so far, but I must ask for more help on this. If you're willing."

Newt looked at Anathema. Anathema looked at Newt.

"What do you need us to do?" Anathema said. She sounded, as Newt had earlier, as though she had a pretty good idea of what he needed, but wanted to hear him say it before continuing.

Aziraphale took a breath. "I need you to help blacken my wings," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked in the mirror, and he could believe himself a demon--almost himself, but subtly _wrong_ in a half-dozen ways. He looked mad, utterly and completely so.
> 
> He could almost believe this plan wasn't as completely barmy as he knew it was.

***

On the one hand, it was going entirely according to plan. Aziraphale had brought out his wings, feeling oddly bashful about them--he hadn't pulled them onto the earthly plane around humans for millennia, not since that sort of thing started drawing all the attention. 

Anathema and Newt had been suitably impressed and/or awed--Anathema had pulled back, blinking as though suddenly hit with high-watt Klieg lights; Newt wobbled visibly. "Be not afraid," Aziraphale said quickly, falling back on the old traditions.

"There's knowing you're an angel," Newt had said, "and then there's seeing those." Anathema had just dug in her bag for some painkillers with a muttered comment about 'knowing now why his aura looks like that.'

He'd stood still, letting them touch, wanting to make sure that they could do so safely. Part of him just wanted to delay, to feel gentle hands running down his feathers, a warm human touch he hadn't felt since the Beginning. Just a moment of peace before getting down to it.

And it was working, he could tell; he could feel his power, his grace, his _self_ furling down, away from the onslaught of fire and pain being applied to his sensitive feathers. It was brilliant. It was going to work. 

It hurt like FUCK.

He was definitely going to owe these very nice young people a distinct favor, he thought. He had believed at first that he would be fine, sitting calmly, helping with the bits he could reach.

Reality had hit very quickly. He had folded off the couch and was currently on his knees, curled and bent in on himself, hands fisted in his skirt. And when they stopped, asking him if he was all right, he gritted his teeth and told them to keep going.

And then, as an alternative to screaming, he reached for the kind of profanity Crowley still avoided even on bad days. It was amazingly close to hand.

"Aziraphale!" he heard, and realized it was not the first time. He pulled his voice to a stop, stumbling over once-familiar syllables. 

"...If you know anyone who speaks Sumerian, do not ever repeat any of that," he said faintly, forehead to the ground. "They will not appreciate what I just said about their mother."

"Are you okay?"Anathema said, in the tones of someone who knew it was a stupid question but needed to ask it anyway.

"It's working. Keep going. Please."

"It's done." Warm human hands reached for his, loosening his fingers from where they were twisted in his borrowed clothes. Warm human fingers rubbed his shoulders, gently trying to relax angry, knotted muscles. 

He pulled himself upright, still kneeling but spine straight. Someone took his hand and wrapped it around a warm mug, smelling of jasmine and home. He opened his eyes. 

"Ow," he said, and took a sip of tea. It was steadying, and the warmth eased the tingle in his fingers. "Thank you."

"I would like to never do that again," Newt said, his voice shaking. 

"Oh, my dears. I asked so much of you...."

"We came to help," Anathema said. "It's not every day I get to say I helped an angel. But I could have gone my entire life without ever hearing an angel scream, either." 

"So get him back, and make it stick," Newt said.

***

After that, the rest of the cosmetic changes were almost trivial. Anathema applied color to his hair, using the yellow and black to darken his normally-platinum curls to a dingy grey. It took a couple tries to get the contacts seated right, but when it was done...

He looked in the mirror, and he could believe himself a demon--almost himself, but subtly _wrong_ in a half-dozen ways. Hair too dim, clothes too dark, wings blackened. Shape all wrong, but he was starting to get used to this version of his body. 

The eyes were the worst of it. He hadn't wanted Anathema to be right about the contacts; he'd rather fancied the snakeish ones. These ones, though... 

He looked mad, utterly and completely so. The red and black obscured his pupils, ran out into the whites, and he had to admit they definitely completed the look of a demon.

He could almost believe this plan wasn't as completely barmy as he knew it was.

***

Anathema and Newt were talking in the kitchen. 

Aziraphale finished making sure everything important was on his desk, in case everything went badly, and slipped out the door without alerting them. 

A cab to Mayfair and Crowley's flat wasn't hard to pick up at this hour, although he had no intention of going inside. Instead he thanked the cabbie and paid well. Nodded absently when the cabbie complimented his costume. 

Stepped over to the Bentley. 

He laid a hand on the door handle, carefully. "I know I don't look like me right now," he said softly. "But I need you. Crowley needs you." 

Silence.

"Please."

The lock clicked under his hand.

"Thank you," he breathed. He climbed in, mindful of his wings, and drove carefully to the shiny, modern, unmarked building that was the current home of London's celestial access.

"I know," he said, patting the dash gently. "I'm going to get him back. But I might need your help. Can you wait here for us?"

There was almost a sigh, a settling of the shocks, and the radio came to life.

_"Love is saying, baby, it's alright,  
when deep inside you're really petrified."_

"I'll be back," Aziraphale said. _"We'll_ be back."

The escalators were just as he remembered them, shiny and gleaming, not a speck of dust anywhere. He looked longingly at the bright ones to Upstairs for just a moment, then closed his eyes and breathed out, thinking back to the hundreds of times he'd seen Crowley do this. 

It was... determination, he thought. No hesitation, and a little _twist_ as he stepped....

He got it on the second try. The world dropped away and curled, flipped, and he was riding down into cramped corridors and flickering fluorescent overheads, trying to remember his way to the room he'd been taken before. He could tell the instant he actually slipped planes, as the burning on his arm abruptly lessened and he gasped in relief at the cessation of pain--still sore, still throbbing a bit in time with whatever Crowley was going through, and the core of him was still cramped under borrowed misery, but that constant toothache-spike of pain from being on a different plane at least was better.

He'd hoped that the halls he needed would be mostly empty, or full enough that he wouldn't be noticed. He'd expected to have to dodge and sneak. Was prepared to maybe bluff his way once or twice.

He was surprised to find that that wouldn't be necessary, and appalled to find that it wasn't even possible.

Aziraphale rounded a corner and halted in dismay at the array of demons in front of him, all gathered around a large screen of some sort.

Pictured on the screen was Crowley, standing in darkness, his wings out and held tightly to his body (wrong, that was wrong, he'd said once, three bottles in, that he never brought his wings out in Hell, it made him too vulnerable). His sunglasses were gone, as was his shirt. He was lit from below and the mottled bruising of his bare torso seemed days and days old (although, thankfully, there was no visible blood). He swayed, wavering, unsteady. The faint shimmer of scales across his shoulders, winding in patterns down his back and chest, spoke to a level of exhaustion Aziraphale had rarely seen on him.

And then he swayed too far, sparking light along his arm and earning a yelp as he yanked himself back upright.

Aziraphale pulled himself back around the corner for a couple of breaths and a tiny squeak of panic. Clearly he was not going to be able to sneak to where Crowley was because Crowley was currently in the _center ring_. And whatever new plan he came up with better be fast.

_"Rage,"_ Crowley had said quietly, trying to warn him about Hell. _"Rage, rage is always appropriate. Fear. Anger and rage."_

He took a breath. Rage... rage he had, in spades. Hell was getting _clever_. Hell was getting clever with _his demon._

Rage, he could absolutely handle. 

He was moving before he realized he was moving, before he was aware of making up his mind. He stalked up to the group--wrong body, blackened wings snapping behind him, heels incongruously noisy on the filthy floors of Hell. Radiating rage and other people's anguish.

"My turn next," he said, and watched the assembled hordes of Hell turn away from the screen to look directly at him.

He forced himself to keep going. Hell valued strength and the appearance of strength. Fine. For Crowley he would be strong.

"You heard me. My turn. I spent forever on this fucking getup. I _owe_ him. And if you're all just planning to stand around and gawp at him, then I am going to _collect."_

"...Wot the Heaven you supposed to be?" said one of the demons, after a moment.

"You're joking, right? You know he... _fancies_ the angel." The suggestive pause there almost undid him, and he thought a small apology to Crowley, covering by adjusting himself so that the 'Sex Pistols' was even more stretched. "Hand him the angel, flirty and Fallen? You kids just point the way and enjoy the show while I go to work on him like we're denizens of the _Pit,_ okay darling?"

They were silent for a moment, and he steeled himself--this couldn't work, this would never ever work--

One of the demons, a small one with what appeared to be an armadillo, pointed down a corridor with a dirty, somewhat armored finger.

"Good boy. Go pop some corn or something and let Mother handle this." He stalked down the hallway, boots in line heel-to-toe as Crowley had taught him, feeling his skirt swish around him with every step. 

Maybe there was something to this. 

Or maybe, he reflected briefly, he just hadn't had the proper motivation before.

The door at the end of the corridor was dingier than most. One of the interchangeable Legion-things slouched next to it, straightening up in mild alarm as he came down the hall.

"Don't fuck with me, kid," Aziraphale growled, before the other could get out a word. "I've been _waiting_ for this chance."

And he threw open the door, stalking through into darkness.

Crowley recoiled from the light that poured in along with him, cursing under his breath and blinking. 

As their eyes adjusted, Aziraphale realized the illumination he'd seen before came from a containment circle on the floor around the demon--enclosing him, lighting him, far too small to allow him rest or comfort. His eye picked it apart automatically as he circled Crowley.

"Hello, Crowley," he purred, one eye on the ground. 

Crowley looked at him wide-eyed for the space of a few steps, shuffling awkwardly so as to turn and keep him in view without sparking into the circle walls any more than he could help.

And the demon started laughing, a broken, unhinged laugh that only cut off when he bent too far and ran his shoulder and wing into that power. "You're.... you're the worst one yet," he said finally. "The earlier ones were much more convincing. Even the _dead_ Aziraphales were better."

Aziraphale tutted, painfully aware of the audience he had just dared to watch them. "Oh, Crowley," he said. He almost, _almost_ had it.... there. If he could un-knot it right there, the circle would fall. "I think you'll find I'm far more convincing an angel than any of them." 

It was a careful piece of work, but a simple one--force the imprisoned into their body, drain them, cut them off from their occult power, make the circle too small to allow for rest. Watch them abuse themselves with every passing minute, unable to rest, punished for moving too far. 

And, apparently, toss in simulacra from time to time, and let his own caring drive him mad. 

It was simple. It was diabolical. And he was going to destroy it. 

He continued to circle. He didn't think he could just reach in and break it; the wards went both ways. He could use the holy water, if he needed, if he could be sure of keeping it clear of Crowley. If he couldn't find a better way.

Crowley stopped trying to follow him, just waiting, holding himself still, until Aziraphale came around again. "I know you've thought about it. What it would be like, if I Fell, and we were equals. What I'd be like, if I took on the female form...."

"Well, I did always assume he'd have fantastic tits, so I guess you got one thing right," Crowley said, then froze. "That's..." he breathed, and his entire body snapped to attention, tired eyes clearing and meeting Aziraphale's. "That's my shirt. That's _my shirt_ you _bastard."_

_Shit._ Aziraphale's mind raced--he hadn't planned on having to explain this with an audience, knew it was a risk to wear the shirt but couldn't bear to give it up, and everything he came up with would only cause Crowley more pain, and more--

Crowley took a deep breath, blood and murder in his eyes, and plunged into the containment circle.

The scream that ripped from him would echo in Aziraphale's nightmares, if he was ever able to sleep again. Pain sparked around him with a sickly shine as he just kept pushing through, _pushing_\-- 

And Aziraphale, for just a moment, was torn between reaching for Crowley to just get him _out of there_, away from the pain, or running from the rage that sought his throat.

That moment was, by just a fraction, too long. Crowley reached a point where more of him was out of the field than in it, and he slammed into Aziraphale and staggered, his hands finding purchase anywhere they could grab, carrying the angel with him across the room to land heavily underneath him.

There was a deeply unfortunate CRACK as Aziraphale hit the floor thigh-first, and a spreading wetness that froze him to his core.

"If you've hurt him," Crowley was growling, "if you've so much as _touched_ him--"

"Get _back!"_ Aziraphale threw Crowley off him and away from the spreading puddle of holy water, farther and harder than he'd meant to, just to get him clear of it. 

Crowley rolled with a yelp but got right back up. He was clearly exhausted, using his rage to keep him upright. He'd just as clearly been itching for somewhere to channel that rage. 

And he was heading straight back for the angel and the loose holy water. 

"Stay back, you silly serpent, there's h--!" Aziraphale hissed, cut off with a grunt as Crowley barrelled into him and he had to roll him off. "It's actually me, you idiot, _stop!"_ And he did what might turn out to be the stupidest thing in this entire stupid day. 

He waved at the holy water, absorbing it into himself to keep it away from his demon.

Aziraphale sighed at the sudden easing of his cramped grace.

Hell fell silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so so sorry for leaving it there. Except for the part of me that is not sorry because a cliffhanger like that only comes along once in a while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Nonsense," Aziraphale said briskly, getting to his feet. He rolled his shoulders carefully. "Just so you know, in case we don't make it out of here... I have loved you since forever, you silly serpent."

...

He waved at the holy water, absorbing it into himself to keep it away from his demon.

Aziraphale sighed at the sudden easing of his cramped grace.

Hell fell silent.

Crowley stopped, jaw fallen open. "Angel? ...Aziraphale?" He blinked. "Angel, what the _fuck?!"_ His wide amber eyes raked over Aziraphale, taking him in, and then abruptly unfocused. 

Crowley dropped to his knees, falling forward and only barely catching himself as the rage left his body. 

The halls of Hell erupted into shouts.

Aziraphale scrambled over. "Crowley! I swear it's me, I'm sorry, but we have to get out of here--"

"Not... not sure I'm up to running, angel." He tried to push himself up a bit, arms wobbling. 

"I know you're tired, but this is not the best time for a rest!" Aziraphale clicked his fingers and a lock and bar appeared on the door just as the pounding started. "I was hoping to sneak out, but they were watching you, and then the water pistol broke, and--"

"Water pistol?"

"--And I couldn't have that and now, now, now I'm very much afraid we're going to have to fight," continued Aziraphale. "And I can't carry you and fight--" He broke off, staring at Crowley. "Unless... My dear? Do you think you can go snake for me? I believe I can carry you if you do."

The pounding on the door was getting worse. 

Crowley shook his head. 

Aziraphale reached for him, laid a hand on his bare shoulder. "Try, love. I'm not losing you now."

Crowley raised his head and met Aziraphale's gaze. "Don't know what you did to your eyes, but I don't like it. Don't do it again." And he took a breath and _squeezed_, wings pulling in, body lengthening and shrinking. He slithered up Aziraphale's arm, then slumped around his neck. "Done in," he muttered. "Ssssorry."

"Nonsense," Aziraphale said briskly, getting to his feet. He shrugged out of the button-down and rolled his shoulders carefully. "Just so you know, in case we don't make it out of here... I have loved you since forever, you silly serpent."

"Jusst sso you know, angel... if we do make it out of here, at ssome point I am diving into this rack."

Aziraphale smothered a laugh before taking a deep breath and facing the door. "I used to know how to do this..." he muttered. 

_Picture a hand, at the Gates of Eden. _

_Picture a sword, heavy, heavenly. Feel it in your hand._

_And now...._

"Bring it," the angel breathed, with a push. 

The sudden weight in his hand shouldn't have been as familiar as it was. Last time, he hadn't really had a target, had been off-balance, grabbing for it desperately just to _do_ something, _anything_. 

But this time... he had something to guard. Something tangible; something precious. Someone that made the world he loved worth it all. 

And there were _plenty_ of targets.

The sword burst into flame. 

"Hold on, dear," he said, and waved at the door. The lock and bar disappeared.

The first three demons fell through the door with a yelp of surprise and a scream of pain, delivered by a sword of Holy fire. They writhed away as Aziraphale swept through the door.

Those behind pulled back, wanting to be part of ripping the angel and the traitor apart, just as clearly not wanting to sacrifice themselves to do so. Demons cringed away from the sword and Aziraphale, wrapped in his snaky lover, was able to advance. 

It went quite swimmingly for almost ten feet, actually, until one of the assembled demons realized they were on track to lose their prize and then have to _answer_ for it, and lunged.

It rippled through the crowd like a wave, even as that demon met the flat of Aziraphale's blade, and more bodies surged at them.

Aziraphale met them with Holy fire and Holy steel, advancing slowly, and still they came. 

He didn't realize that anyone had started playing with Hellfire until Crowley reared and struck, darting in front of him and catching a ball of it in his fangs.

Crowley swallowed. "Ohhhhh.... that'ss _goooood,"_ he hissed, and a shudder went down his body, rippling his scales. He darted his head out behind, sinking fangs into a demon who was trying to sneak up, reminding them that he could be venomous if necessary. 

"Well done!" Aziraphale cheered, arm moving tirelessly. Crowley was doing better; the Hellfire had been good for him--in spite of everything Aziraphale couldn't help the bubble of love that welled up in him.

He did not expect the demons to suddenly fall back, but he took advantage, pressing forward down the hall.

_Grace... is just love, turned up,_ he thought.

Aziraphale smiled, not _quite_ angelically. "Close your eyes, love. This might sting."

He thought of how many things there were in the world to love--sticky children and orange sunsets and cool ice cream, the solidity of trees and the fragility of flowers, ducks getting greedy and well-aged wines and tiny hidden patisseries and cups of cocoa on cool nights. Poetry that meant more than it said and satire that said more than it meant and beautiful stories where people's lives were condensed into a few hours. Crisp tart apples that tasted of autumn, that almost tasted of Fall.

And with it all, beside him through all of it, Crowley. Comforting him and laughing with him and saving him, holding him, the flash of his eye and the silk of his lips and tempting him, tempting him, just _being tempting,_ because of who he was.

Because sometimes you get lucky, so lucky, and what you love _loves you back_.

He held that love, all of it, everything his mortal corporation could contain and more besides. 

Grace is just love turned up.

He felt his wings snap out stretched behind him, all their cramped misery evaporating off in a puff as he filled to the brim, and he was _unshackled._ Demons fell back from his wings--the halls were brighter now and he wasn't sure but what the light might be coming from him. He gathered it and gathered it, until it felt like it was going to burst out of him.

And he let go, channeling it through the sword.

Light and fire burst out from the sword like a shock wave, rippling through the assembled demons. Some of them screamed, some fled.

Most of them fell. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, "Are you alright?"

The snake shook his head. "Leg it, angel."

Aziraphale legged it. 

The last glance, over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed, showed him the dusty black imprint of wings on the wall.

*** 

The Bentley was waiting for them. 

"You took my car!" Crowley said. 

"Yes, I did. I would like a quick getaway," Aziraphale answered, hurrying to the driver's side. The lock clicked open under his fingers. He concentrated a moment, pulling his wings back in, and shivered.

"You. Drove my car. You?"

"And I'm driving it now unless you can change very _very_ fast," Aziraphale said as he got behind the wheel, tossed the sword into the passenger floorboards. He patted the dash and smiled. "Back to the shop, my dear."

"Go," Crowley said, still draped around his angel. The engine purred to life, pulling away. "I can barely ssee sstill. And I trusst her driving more than yourss."

"I did tell you to close your eyes." 

"I don't have eyelidss! Not as a ssnake!"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, hands on the wheel and signaling a turn. "Sorry. I don't think I knew that."

"I can't watch." Crowley wove his head into Aziraphale's hair. "Jusst let her do it, angel."

"I did not get you back just to discorporate you now," Aziraphale said. He reached up and gently ran his hand down Crowley's skin, scales slick-dry and shifting under his fingers, just being there, in contact. Touched him, to prove he was real; not even pretending to drive anymore, trusting the Bentley to get them home.

Crowley's tongue flicked across his neck, smell/taste/touch/tickle, and Aziraphale laughed gently at the touch--

And broke, his hand clutching, harder than he meant to, serpentine muscles twisting in his grasp. "I almost lost you," he said, almost inaudible, feeling his heart un-break. He'd never have thought it would hurt nearly as much to fix as to shatter.

"You came for me," Crowley said, tongue tickling his ear. "I don't think I had any hope left, and you came for me."

"I will _always_ come for you," Aziraphale said fiercely, through tears, holding on to his serpent. 

The Bentley slowed and stopped, parked in her space rather more neatly than usual. And she was, Aziraphale thought, very patient with them when, between his own tears and Crowley's bone-deep exhaustion, it took a moment for them to get out of the car. 

Inside, Anathema and Newt were still there, surprised, and, at least on Anathema's part, astonishingly angry. "You left!" she shouted, as they came in. "You didn't even say anything!"

"Hello, Anathema," Aziraphale said, followed by a tired but cheerful "Book girl!" from Crowley.

Anathema took a step back. Newt took a step forward. "Crowley?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, you hadn't seen him in this form, had you?" Aziraphale came farther in, dropped the sword in the umbrella stand. "I must thank you, my dears, so very much. I'm not sure I could have done it without you."

Newt was still looking at Crowley. "You're a _beautiful_ snake!"

"Thankss," Crowley hissed. "But I think I'd really like to get out of scaless. Angel?"

"Of course!" Aziraphale stepped around Anathema, who was still staring at Crowley's snake-form, and let him slither off onto the couch. "Oh, unless you'd rather the bed upstairs?"

"Couch is fine," Crowley said tightly, already concentrating. His form twisted, _shifting_, and he lay sprawled on the couch in his human form, panting with the effort.

Anathema hissed at the yellowing marks on his ribs, ignoring the winding scales that spotted his chest. "Those bruises look nasty." She shook herself, moving toward her bag. "How long were you down there?"

"Felt like weeks," Crowley said, at the same time as Aziraphale glanced at the clock and said, "Fourteen hours or so?" and they stared at each other for a moment.

"Can't have been," Crowley said.

Aziraphale's eyes locked on his. "My dear, we had breakfast this morning. I felt you taken."

Anathema rummaged in her bag. "Those bruises are well older than half a day. I might have something that could help."

"They were playing games with time, I _knew_ it!" Crowley said, and winced. "Ow. Wait, you stormed Hell for me in _fourteen hours?"_

"I did have some help," Aziraphale said, with a fond glance at the humans. "She's right, that does look nasty. I'm so sorry my dear, I should have been there sooner."

"Fourteen hoursAAH!" Crowley said, yelping as Aziraphale laid a hand on his ribs and the bruising eased. "And what do you mean you 'felt me taken!'?"

"Is that better?"

"Yes, that is better. And what the he-- What do you mean you felt me taken?"

Anathema had come out of her bag with a salve in time to see the bruises fade and disappear under Aziraphale's hand. "I am not going to get used to that. Newt, did you see--Where's Newt?"

"Here!" he called from the little kitchenette. "Sorry, I'm English. Things are happening so I'm making tea."

"Oh, thank you, you lovely boy!" Aziraphale said, with a smile.

"Don't think you're getting out of this with tea, angel," Crowley grumbled, but he was clearly more comfortable already. "And would you _please_ do something about the eyes?"

"Oh! I'd quite forgotten--" Aziraphale struggled with the contacts for a moment, then gave up and miracled them into their container. He turned back to his demon. "Better?" 

Crowley breathed, the last of the tension bleeding out of him as yellow eyes stared into blue. "_There_ you are."

"I'd ask just what all of this means, but I think I'm afraid someone might tell me," Anathema said, her earlier discomfiture with the snake gone in the face of their soft smiles.

"That's why I'm making tea!" Newt called.

"My dear girl, you were brilliant, both of you. I was able to walk right in to him! I cannot thank you enough and I--we--definitely owe you a favor."

"And as you can imagine, a favor from us can be quite a lot," Crowley said. He was slowly sinking down into the couch, although he revived a little when Newt brought out tea and hobnobs.

Aziraphale pressed a mug into Crowley's hands, held it steady as the demon curled around the warmth, and gratefully accepted his own. "Thank you, dear boy. Did I have hobnobs? I'm sure I did not have hobnobs."

"Eat your hobnobs, angel," Crowley said. "And then get me to bed before I slide off this ssofa? It has been... it has been _literally_ the longest day, today."

Anathema put down her tea and stood. "We should let you get some rest. I'm... I'm very glad you're back safely," she said.

"Nonsense. We've a perfectly reasonable spare room and it's far too late to be driving back to Tadfield now." Aziraphale stood. "Let me show you upstairs."

"We don't have a spare room," Crowley said, watching his angel fondly.

"We do now." They stared at him. "...Oh, very well, tomorrow I will put it back where I found it. But tonight I think it's time for everyone to get some sleep."

***

It took a minute to get Newt and Anathema settled--he pulled matching nightshirts out of firmament to hand them, and smiled through the variously amused and befuddled looks he received in return.

Crowley was going to be more work. 

"Spare room?" he murmured, when Aziraphale came back down after him. He'd sunk farther into the couch, burrowed into the afghan.

"I couldn't just ask them for help and then send them driving home in the middle of the night," Aziraphale said. He pulled the blanket free and took a look with a more critical eye. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough. Could be worse. There are more bruises, but I don't think anything broken. Mostly it's just... it was weeks, Aziraphale. Weeks. I'm _knackered."_

"Oh, my dear." Aziraphale leaned forward, cupping his hand gently around his demon's jaw, smoothing his thumb across a sharp cheekbone. "I am so sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"I'm not blaming you, angel. You stormed Hell for me in fourteen hours. I mean, I'd planned to be out most of the day. You might not have even missed me till now, and you already have me back." He turned into the touch, pressing a kiss into his angel's palm. "Not that I'm not grateful, but what do you mean, you felt me taken?"

Aziraphale sighed and turned his arm palm-up, displaying the faded scar that the sigil had turned into. "My terrible idea worked. Huzzah."

Crowley reached out for his arm. "Is this--?"

"Indeed. Apparently asking it to alert me when something happens to your corporation works better when I'm not wearing your corporation."

"And the summoning circle over there, which I would like to see dismantled tomorrow please? That was..."

"I tried to summon you first, in case they'd left a loophole, but I couldn't finish it. You may safely ignore the message I left. It seems that calling you only works if I can actually talk to you." 

Crowley sighed, shaking his head. 

"And unless you have something else you wanted to discuss, I think it's time to get you to bed." He slid an arm under Crowley's shoulders. "Up you come. I would very much like to get out of these clothes and this body, and have a better look at you when I'm me again."

"Don't knock this you. This you was badass," Crowley said, slurring slightly as between them they got him upright and navigated the stairs with, he had to admit, no real help from the demon himself. "This you is sstill doing the heavy lifting."

"This me would like to get you into bed, and not for the usual reasons." He said, and gave up on conversation until Crowley was laid out on the bed. "Come on, love." He wrestled for a moment with Crowley's jeans before just snapping them off, running his hands along the bruising there until it too faded.

"I want to check your wings over as well, if you can bring them out before you sleep," he said after, but the slumped figure before him didn't so much as twitch. He sighed and kissed the demon's shoulder, pulled up the duvet.

It was with immense relief that he pulled off the boots and skirt he'd been wearing; with relief and a tiny bit of sadness that he wriggled out of the Sex Pistols t-shirt and stood naked in their room, finally able to take a moment, just a moment....

He closed his eyes and rummaged around in this body until he found what he needed, and _pulled._

Aziraphale's old, accustomed body settled in around him. He took a deep, free breath for the first time in what felt like days.

A pair of pajamas later he climbed into bed, wrapping himself carefully around his sleeping demon and trying not to squeeze him inhumanly tight. 

He'd adopted the habit of human prayer, since the aborted End of the World--going through regular channels was more contact with Heaven than he wanted and demonstrably didn't get him through to the Almighty anyway, but sometimes he just needed to say something, whether or not She was listening.

"I almost lost him, today," he said to the ceiling. "I could have lost him, and I don't know if I could have borne that." 

There was no answer. He hadn't really expected one. That was the annoyance and beauty of human-style prayer.

"I don't know if You're listening. I don't even know if You care. But... thank you."

Still no answer. He found tears slipping from his eyes, though, and curled back in around Crowley. Holding tight, prepared to never let go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You said you'd have breakfast with us, you silly demon," Aziraphale muttered some hours later, up and dressed and trying without much success to prod said demon into wakefulness. 
> 
> "Mmmphgl," said Crowley into his pillow, which was a good sight more coherent than Aziraphale had gotten from him so far.

***

He opened his eyes when Crowley moved, and realized he was still weeping softly. 

"Oi," Crowley slurred, turning to him, shifting so their legs entwined. A hand came up, thumb brushing across his cheek, wiping away tears. "Y'okay?"

"I love you so much. It's excruciating."

"'S what every demon wants to hear," Crowley grinned, then woke himself up more as Aziraphale choked off a sob. "Whoa, hey, it was just a joke. What's wrong?"

"You were gone, you were just _gone,_ and I didn't know what happened! I had to change so much--"

"Shhh," Crowley said. "You came for me. You hid yourself well enough that _I_ couldn't find you, and I can find you across half a continent. You were brilliant and you were badass and the stompy boot goth look is good on you."

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, just holding and being held, but his mind wouldn't _shut up_. "Did... did you like me better that way?" It sounded tiny and sniveling even to his own ears, but he couldn't not ask it.

"What? Angel. Aziraphale. You are my angel. You helped save the world while sharing with _Madam Tracy_, and you walked into Hell for me. _Twice._ I love you in ways that make my demon bits tear their hair out in frustration, and I love you in ANY body." 

Those long fingers came up to brush Aziraphale's cheek, rest at his jaw and rub by his ear, and he leaned into it, eyes closing. "But you said--"

"Not gonna lie, if you ever decide that you want to take a walk on the woman side, I'd be there. But if you don't, I'll still be there. This is the you I fell for, barefoot in Eden. This is the you I think of. Whatever form you wear, you are..."

"Soft," Aziraphale said.

_"Opulent,"_ Crowley countered. "Warm. I want to twine around you even when I'm not a snake." He stretched just enough to plant a quick peck on Aziraphale's lips. "I am still amazed that I get to touch you like this. Don't talk yourself out of it."

Aziraphale reached out, feeling skin both silky and scaled under his fingertips, and smiled. 

"Are you good? 'Cause I want you to be good, but I also want to sleep til next century."

"You can have a week," Aziraphale said. "No more. You have to get up at least a little in a week because I don't think I can live without you anymore. And I'm going to make you get up in the morning so I can check over your wings."

"'K," Crowley said, eyes drifting closed. "I'll even have breakfast with you and the kids before we send them home."

***

"You said you'd have breakfast with us, you silly demon," Aziraphale muttered some hours later, up and dressed and trying without much success to prod said demon into wakefulness. 

"Mmmphgl," said Crowley into his pillow, which was a good sight more coherent than Aziraphale had gotten from him so far.

"Up," he said. "The angel of the Lord saith, Be not abed."

"G'way."

"Do not make me use angel voice on you."

"...Wouldn't. You don't even remember how."

Aziraphale leaned down toward Crowley's ear. "Is that a challenge?" he said sweetly.

"...'m up, you dictator." Crowley twisted, trying to extricate himself from the sheets that had gotten tangled around him, but finally managed to be sitting on the edge of the bed, unselfconsciously nude, scales still present in whorls on his skin but less evident than last night.

Aziraphale leaned down and kissed his forehead, then tapped his shoulder smartly. "Wings out. Don't think I can't tell they're bothering you."

Grumbling, he brought out his wings with a grunt, a _fwoosh,_ and a scattering of void-black feathers across rumpled bedclothes. 

"Oh my poor Crowley," Aziraphale said softly, running his hand oh so gently over bent, torn, occasionally scorched feathers. "How do they feel?"

"Hurt. 'Bout like they look." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, resting his forehead against the angel's stomach. "They forced 'em out. I'd never have brought them out on my own. Something went bad just... there." He pointed over his shoulder and Aziraphale followed it, ran a fingertip along the crest. Felt the tissues underneath until he got to a stress point--tearing in the muscle and a fracture in the bone, almost on the edge of failure.

"Hold still, dear. This is going to hurt a bit." Aziraphale called up some power, let it trickle in slowly while he ignored Crowley's sudden gasp. He focused on the tiny structures, calling them into alignment, making sure everything was knitted up properly, until he broke the connection. 

Crowley was shaking, just slightly, back muscles tight and thrumming.

"Are you alright? Was that too much?"

"Nah. 's good. Hurts like bloody fire, but... 's good." Crowley snaked an arm around him, leaning in and pressing a palm flat to his back to hold him in place. "Check the rest?"

"Of course, dear. Ah... this would be easier if I could sit behind you."

Another arm around his middle. "Not going anywhere," Crowley said into his belly.

"Oh, very well. Extend this for me, please?" He gently touched the other wing.

Crowley extended it partway, biting back a muffled curse.

"Yes, I thought so. Let's take care of that..."

It took another quarter hour or so before Aziraphale was satisfied. By the end Crowley had a fine sheen of sweat over coiled muscles from keeping still through divine healing and Aziraphale had taken care of at least two more fractures and several more patches of torn tissues. He ran his hands through ember-bright hair, smoothing and soothing. "Done, love. You were so very good. How do you feel?"

"Itchy. Tired. Wrecked. M' power isn't back yet. Need to sleep some more."

"Can you make it through breakfast and a wash? I'll finish seeing to your wings, after, and that should help the itch." He ran his hand gently, then more firmly down the strip of back between dark wings, and was rewarded by feeling muscles loosen under his fingertips. "I've done the worst hurts, but you could use a good preen and I'm sure I haven't gotten to half the damaged feathers."

"Wash sounds good." He got to his feet with some effort, swaying slightly. "Point me toward the shower and ask me 'bout breakfast after."

***

Anathema was where he had left her, poking through his prophecy books. "None of these are remotely useful," she said without looking up.

"Ah, the Mother Shipton. Not terribly nice or accurate, even before her publisher started adding things," Aziraphale said. "Fascinating, though."

"How's Crowley?"

"Tired. He's having a wash. Where's Newton?"

"I think he found some science fiction on your shelves. He was reading on the sofa last I saw. Was she at all concerned with truth, or did she just want a good rhyme?"

"Rhymes were very popular. Having a good rhyme might be the difference between selling your books and, well, not." Aziraphale thought back. "He wasn't on the couch when I came past, I don't think."

"I'm sure he's around somewhere. Want me to find him?" 

"I shouldn't worry. The stacks are bigger than they look, but it's been ages since they ate anyone." He smiled at Anathema when she whipped her head up to look at him. "I'm sure he'll yell if he gets lost, and I don't believe we're in a hurry yet, my dear girl."

"Your bookshop better not eat my boyfriend," she said, returning her attention to the book before her. "Agnes was so much better than this."

"That's why I was amazed to get my hands on your book. I would never have taken it deliberately, of course. But I am so very glad you left it in the car!"

They spent a while more, talking about Agnes' Nice and Accurate (and other people's rather less accurate) prophecies, until footsteps on the stair creaked behind them.

Crowley rounded the corner, barefoot, hair damp and disarrayed. He wore one of his smaller and less opaque pairs of sunglasses and was dressed in indecently tight jeans and a battered tee with 'Buzzcocks' written across it. "Book girl! Good morning!"

"I. Have. A _name!"_ she growled, looking up from her books.

"Demon!" he said with a smirk. It faded as he leaned forward. "An-a-them-a," he enunciated carefully. "Thank you. For-- for being here for Angel. You and the boy."

She smiled at him. "He has a name, too."

"You and Newt, then. Where is Newt?"

"Wandering the stacks, we thought," said Aziraphale. "I'll just pop through--"

The shop bell rang. Aziraphale's unhurried amble toward the shelves changed to a determined stalk very quickly. "I'm afraid we're quite, _quite_ closed!"

"That's why I have breakfast!" called a cheerful voice. "If someone wants to give me a hand?"

"Dear boy, you should have said!" Aziraphale and Newt returned to the back room carrying boxes and bags. "We thought you were wandering the shelves!"

"I thought you might not want to go out just now, considering, y'know. Everything." He set things out in the kitchenette and opened up a box of pastries. "I told Anathema I was going. Didn't she say?"

"You didn't tell--!" Anathema piped up. "Wait. Hang on. Was I looking directly at you when you said?"

"No, but you nodded and told me to have fun.'

"Sweetie we've been over this. Eye contact. If you're going to tell me something important while I'm reading, you need to make _eye contact."_

"Smells good," Crowley drawled into this amiable bickering. "Whatcha got?"

Aziraphale had been poking through packages. "Oooh, quiche!"

"Turns out most of the street is very anxious to help poor Mr Fell and also dying for some gossip about yesterday," Newt said. "I told them you were fine, but waiting to hear back from your doctor on what exactly had happened, so don't be surprised if people ask." He poked into one of the boxes and came back with a small fruit tart, which he popped into his mouth.

"Oh dear, I suppose I shall have to have some explanation." The angel was happily unboxing an entire bacon-brie-and-apple quiche and slicing it out onto plates. "However did you know to get this one?"

"Mrs. Roberts knew. The minute I said it was for you she boxed it up and wouldn't let me pay. Same with the pastries from down the street. 'Oh, poor Mr. Fell, here are his favorites, give him our good wishes, tell him to pop 'round when he's feeling better...'"

"There you go, angel," Crowley said into the impossibly fond look that had settled on Aziraphale's face. "Everyone loves you. Come on, book girl, have some breakfast. Just don't get it anywhere near his books."

***

"You seem to be feeling better," Aziraphale remarked as they watched Dick Turpin drive off.

"What makes you say that?" Crowley said, leaning against the doorjamb.

"You miracled a shirt from your flat. Your power must be coming back." The little blue car rounded the corner out of sight. Aziraphale turned to see his demon sliding down a bit and rushed to catch him. "Whoop, here you go!"

"This shirt's been here since 1982," Crowley said as his legs gave way. "You should tidy more often."

"All right, up to bed again." Aziraphale tried for a moment to get Crowley's arm around him and finally sighed, scooping his lanky form into a bridal carry.

"This's a bit...." Crowley said, slumping happily in.

"Easier?"

"Humiliili? Embarrassing. An' also a bit comfortable. Could go to sssleep like this."

"Bed first, please. _I_ am going to want to do something other than be your teddy bear for the next week."

Crowley nuzzled into his neck. "Could find better uses for you than teddy bear."

Aziraphale snapped the duvet back and deposited him carefully onto soft sheets. "Not until you're _quite_ recovered. Jeans off or on?" he said, gently removing the sunglasses and placing them next to the bed.

"Off." Crowley waggled his eyebrows. 

"Very well," he said, and began the process of shimmying someone out of skinny jeans for the second time in twelve hours. "We are going to have a talk about your sartorial choices, you know."

"Lemme sleep for a year and I'm all yours." Crowley's eyes were drifting closed.

"A week. You can have a week." The jeans came free. "Do you hear me, Crowley? A week!"

The slumped figure before him didn't move.

"Well, at least you wore pants this time," Aziraphale muttered, pulling the duvet back over.

After a minute, Crowley began to snore.

***

True to his word, Crowley slept for a week. True to _his,_ Aziraphale woke him up at the end of that week to see how he was recovering, and then, satisfied that recovery was happening, let him go back down for another week. Then a third.

He was at his desk after hours, engrossed in his work, when something touched his shoulder and he jumped and turned. "Crowley!"

"Hey, angel," Crowley said. 

"You're awake!" He didn't even try to keep the delight off his face. "How do you feel?"

A snap, and a gardenia from nowhere--petals a spotless velvety-white, fragrance sweet and heavy. He presented it to the angel with a flourish. "Think I'm all powered back up. Whatcha working on?"

Aziraphale felt his delight falter, and he shuffled papers around, mostly covering up what had been on top. "Oh! ...Nothing much, really. Just a light spot of study. I didn't expect you to be up yet. Would you like to go out? It's a lovely day!"

"Angel," Crowley said warningly. He reached over and shifted papers off the pile, one by one, while Aziraphale tried half-heartedly to stop him, and stared at the symbols drawn there. "...What are you working on?"

"Well, they, they took you! In spite of all the protections and wards we put up, they were able to take you. So I thought about maybe making something a little stronger."

"They took me because I wasn't inside any of those protections, though."

"I know. All the wards on your flat and the Bentley were undisturbed. So I wanted to design something more... portable."

Crowley looked more carefully over the sigil design. "So if I'm reading this right, you want these to be... this had better be a keychain design," he finished, eyes narrowing.

"Well, you _could_ put it on a keychain, I suppose, but what if it got lost?"

"I am not tattooing wards on my body, Aziraphale. You are not tattooing wards on my body. I mean, if I was going to trust anyone to do it, it would be you, no question. But the answer is no."

"Well _of course_ I wouldn't tattoo them on! I wouldn't even know how! A simple activation--"

"Did we not learn a lesson about activating wards on our bodies?"

Aziraphale lifted his chin. "I did. I learned that it could help me find and rescue you much faster than I could have done otherwise."

"Okay, I walked into that one," Crowley said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And I really do appreciate the rescue. But the answer is still no. Keychain first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is what happened when I read a lot of rescue fics close together and thought, 'hmm, I can see Aziraphale just going totally BAMF and laying waste about him, sure. but I could ALSO see him thinking, well, if I could just be a little sneaky, I might be able to do this without, y'know, killing everyone.' And then I had the sigil idea and that turned into the whole wardcrafting nerdery and Aziraphale reasoning his way step by step perfectly logically to conclusions that neither Crowley nor anyone else would ever think of.
> 
> And then I released it all on y'all. Because hey, why not. 
> 
> So thanks for reading--hope you had some fun! And I don't always reply to each comment, but I do read and love every one.


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